When we think of black fathers, so often, the reflexive narrative people start telling has to do with absence or abandonment versus engagement and re-engagement. I'm going to see where talking about things in terms of the latter gets me for awhile. See how that way of doing it - talking about fathering as engagement and connection versus silence or absence or not-there-ness - works.
I know it's not just spoken about this way regarding black fathers: it's the whole "man works all day," "moms are more nurturing," "kids need their moms" mentality that pervades our language and lives. Half-truths that amount to bad scaffolding at best, and let dads off the hook, and yet also support a narrative that empowers moms who might be manipulated (further) if things didn't at least linguistically lean in their favors. But I want to do a fixer-upper on the fathering narrative. See if I can make that my odd job, like Harrison Ford and Jesus, in between accomplishing my big mission, during the downtime away from my calling.
Harrison Ford, it's rumored, supported himself between acting jobs by doing odd carpentry jobs. I'd starve if that were my only option for income. But I knocked out an Ikea dresser tonight. Took a month. Had never done it before. Tonight, finis!
I wrote a poem once and had a character in the poem mention an Ikea dresser. Yet I'd never been inside an Ikea before a month ago.
Why'd it take me a month to put this dresser together? Because I so, so, so wanted to hammer it. But Ikea stuff is like computer stuff: if you've got to force it, or hammer it, you're putting it together wrong. But I couldn't figure out how to put the dresser fronts on, and I just stopped cold in my tracks. Left it for weeks. I'm a writer, not a carpenter. I got Jesus, but not that part of Him.
Why didn't I just hammer away? Because my friend - a handy sort - once helped me to move, right? And we'd packed all my stuff except a few wall decorations that we had to take down. Photos in frames. Special stuff, he thought. Then he realized I'd saved them for last because they were nailed to the wall, not just because they were precious photos to me. Nailed the frames. I'd forgotten all about that technique that I'd used to put up my photos until that particular moving day. For years those photos had sat still on the wall. Secure. Stuck, even, for a long time. Damaged upon removal from the wall, though. It wasn't how they were supposed to have been hung. Duhh, right? You couldn't have told me that back then. I wouldn't have listened.
The dressers, tonight, turned out all right. They look good, that's for sure. Drawers slide in and out, secured on metal brackets for a smooth pull. It stands on its own now, no longer needing me to brace one side so the other side won't fall. It holds together nicely whether I'm there or not. Pieces aren't leaning against the wall or lying about on the floor. Everything has a place.
There are some extra screws, but no screws are loose.
I'm thinking of this all as a metaphor for scaffolding a child's growth, and a parent's growth. I'm thinking about my kid, where we're at in our father-daughter relationship now. There have been times where I was sure I was present-enough, and others where I felt I was too far away. As parents know, some of those times occur when you're holding the baby in your arms. Our minds travel. I remember the months leading up to, say, 24 months, when my preoccupation was getting this kid to laugh. I'd do it, then see if she'd imitate me.
I remember trying to get her to imitate my sleepy moods, too. Ever done that as a parent or babysitter? I remember coming home from school with her and feeling exhausted. Sometimes I'd just put us both down on the bed, and look at her, then close my eyes, sort of "instructing" her to do the same. Rarely worked. Most times, I'd have to lay back, nestle her on my chest, and wrap both arms around her tight so she wouldn't fall off as I took a nap and hoped she - unable to escape my grasp - also would. I remember the jerk white kids in Caroll Gardens Park who wouldn't let her swing on Veteran's Day that year ("because you're a nickel," they said), and trying to explain why we rushed them off the swing and THEN moved on to another activity (and didn't just move on without the confrontation), thinking I'm scaffolding how to stand up to silliness in the late 1990's. (Upon confronting the grown-ups, never could figure whether it was the white parents or the black nanny that taught the jerk white kids "nickel.")
I remember letting two seven year olds paint the walls of the child's bedroom after the hardware store specially made a color just for her. Carving jack-o-lanterns, trick-or-treating, riding bikes, letting her drive before she was a teenager in the CVS parking lot...things dads do. Maybe moms do them, too: I'm sure some do those things and others and more. I remember a few years where a group of us - single moms and single dads - went to church together, shared dinners, Halloweens, Kwaanza, New Years, and especially, roller-skating sessions at Empire Skate in Brooklyn, off Flatbush Ave.
I used to attend a church where they made a point of celebrating men every week. Every week, men were mentioned as special creatures, and fatherhood was lauded. A supporter of feminists / womanysts, I at first enjoyed the recognition rituals just intellectually, so I told myself; but then more and more realized I returned as much because I was yearning for that recognition as I was applauding the idea in general. I needed the support: the scaffolding.
Being a parent who isn't living out and hasn't lived out the fantasy of being able to duplicate my upbringing in my child's life still causes residual regret. Will Smith talked about that once: how his oldest son will never know the sensation of running into mom and dad's room for safety during a thunderstorm. How he feels about that. As proto-providers, it grates to know that's one we missed giving our kid...grates when I know how I can still feel that security-vibe obtained under the covers between my own mom and dad during Tidewater storms.
See, there's one of those places where I've gone in my mind sometimes, holding my kid, or watching her do something amazing: to those moments of comfort during thunderstorms. And that's what I do: but I don't go off for long, either physically or in my mind.
But just like it's OK for me to have started the Ikea dresser, left it awhile, and returned when I was better able to put the finishing screws in tight but without the hammer, I think my parenting m.o. is OK, too.
Hmmm...
No comments:
Post a Comment